


Scout Fire

by thegoodreverend



Category: Red Dead Redemption, Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, Mostly Canon Compliant, but you can pry that happy farm ot3 au out of my cold dead hands, except john is an idiot and arthur is butthurt, john has a lot of feelings and he's not good at any of them, sort of a pre-established relationship, the john/abigail/arthur thing is only briefly mentioned, tl;dr john struggles to get arthur to like him again after his betrayal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 08:47:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16807357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegoodreverend/pseuds/thegoodreverend
Summary: “Another vacation already?” he called, and hoped Arthur turned around. He hoped Arthur picked a fight, but he didn’t know why. Maybe because it seemed like the only way he would look John in the eye anymore.“Yeah. There’s an invalid keeps whinin’ and if I don’t get a break I’ll lose my damn mind, likely as not,” he said, and if there’s any venom in it John couldn’t tell because it sounded like every other sarcastic response Arthur’d ever given.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry y'all - unbeta'd and I'm pretty sure there's 10000000000 tense changes in it. It's just how I roll.

Watching Arthur ride back down the trail to Horseshoe Overlook, John wondered how one person could be so good at _everything_. Arthur’s horse was piled with furs, and the saddlebags looked heavy with stolen valuables, and he rode effortlessly and looked practically regal while he did it despite the fact that he was filthy and covered in blood. It seemed to John like he glowed golden in the sun under the trees, nodding and chuckling at the people who give him a hard time for his appearance while he hauled boar and bear hides over his broad shoulders. If somebody talked to John like that, joke or not, after all the effort it must have taken to gather such perfect skins he’d drop the furs and throw a fist, but Arthur seemed to enjoy the ribbing. He said hello to everyone but John, and changed his clothes and downed Pearson’s stew in less than thirty seconds, and then he was back on his horse and on his way out. John watched, and clutched his rifle.

“Another vacation already?” he called, and hoped Arthur turned around. He hoped Arthur picked a fight, but he didn’t know why. Maybe because it seemed like the only way he would look John in the eye anymore.

“Yeah. There’s an invalid keeps whinin’ and if I don’t get a break I’ll lose my damn mind, likely as not,” he said, and if there was any venom in it John couldn’t tell because it sounded like every other sarcastic response Arthur’d ever given.

“Where you goin’?”

“House I heard about up in Roanoke Ridge.”

“Want a hand with it?”

“I seen the help you give out, Marston, there’s enough wolves out there as it is without bringin’ their favorite bait. You just sit down and have yourself a nice rest, seein’ as that’s what you’re good at nowadays,” Arthur barked a derisive laugh and he didn’t turn, and he kept riding, and John watched him disappear feeling a hot flush of shame.

It was easier to say that he was mad at Arthur for being such a stubborn ass than to think about what feelings were churning in his gut. Anger was certainly one of those feelings so it wasn't an outright lie, but there was so much more there for him to be embarrassed by - he’s also jealous, and awed, and ashamed, and hurt. He was so embarrassed by himself that he often turned his thoughts away from what it all meant between him and Arthur, and instead distracted himself with gang politics knowing full well his thoughts would turn back to his current predicament eventually. He told himself bitterly that this was all because Arthur had been getting so much attention from Dutch recently, and that was the extent of it. Bill might have been right when he’d drunkenly claimed that John is Dutch’s favorite son, but Arthur was his most trusted and his closest, and John wanted Dutch to look at him and see somebody as capable as Arthur.

John couldn’t blame Dutch, though – Arthur was the most capable person he’d ever met, even when he had no godly idea what he was doing, and he’d always seemed that way. It wasn’t hero worship, exactly. Even when he was much younger John didn’t want so much to be Arthur as he did just to be around him. The man was certainly flawed, but not in any way that particularly bothered John. At worst, his preternatural talent for pinpointing the exact right way to push John’s buttons with wordplay was frustrating and left him flustered and speechless – everything else just came with the territory. Arthur was a principled outlaw, just like their mentors. A brutal, principled outlaw. John knew, because he did things he didn’t want to do because he had to, for the sake of the family. Strauss sent him out to collect debts and he went without complaint, but if he had the option he probably would have shoved the entire ledger down Strauss’ throat before collecting on anything. Arthur had always felt like that. He’d told John so, back when they were still close enough to talk in hushed and vulnerable voices at the scout fire. Back when they were still close enough to look each other in the eye, before John went and ruined everything.

He knew it was his fault that they were like this now although it certainly wasn’t his fault that Arthur was so stubborn. Maybe he shouldn’t have expected Arthur to forgive him when he left, but at the time he figured that was exactly what would happen. Especially once he knew Dutch and Hosea weren’t going to cling to it – it wasn’t even really _betrayal_ , he’d just needed to find out who he was a little better, and having never been a very big planner really didn’t think of it as abandoning the family. There had been no long-term intent. There was just too much going on all at once, and maybe it was like everybody said, maybe he was just too stupid to handle it. Between Jack, and Abigail, and the chaos of the lives they led – and Arthur, who confused him more and more. He’d expected Arthur to understand that feeling, because Arthur always understood, always gave words to whatever rush of emotion was going through John’s mind… but not this time. All Arthur saw was that he’d abandoned them – the gang, and his family – because he was selfish. Which was true, as all of them were in one way or another. Arthur, who was so confident in his choices even when he didn’t like them, who was so loyal and firm and steady, could not understand in the way John had expected him to, and John didn’t have the words to make him. He wondered if there were any words to make him.

“Hey.”

John snapped his attention to the intruder, looking at Karen standing behind him. He flushed, embarrassed at being caught off-guard.

“Some lookout you are, frozen like a god damn deer. Give that here,” she said, taking the rifle from him.

He thought about saying something back, something sarcastic and self-defaming, something like what Arthur would say, but nothing came fast enough, so he just relinquished the rifle and stalked his way to his tent. If anybody asked him why he was going to bed at five in the evening, he’d blame his injury. Nobody would – nobody but Arthur ever tried to ask him anything when it looked like he was angry.

* * *

John couldn’t sleep. Normally this was not the case, but there were always exceptions. His mind raced, thinking back to every memory with Arthur before he left, trying to reinforce as many details as possible before distance blurred them. It’s not healthy, he supposed, to cling to something that won’t ever be the same, but he did it regardless. It was easier than thinking back to the crushing feeling of disappointment that came with Arthur’s face twitching in disgust upon his initial return when John had anticipated a warm and lingering embrace. Being more recent, that memory intruded more than others as it was.

He thought about the scout fire again, five or six years ago, just after Abigail had shown up. One night in particular, after Arthur had gotten back from drinking in town still reeling from an encounter with Mary. Hosea had to go retrieve him, and John remembered him describing Arthur as “so violently drunk I had to dunk him in the river three times on the way here just to bring him back to earth”. John couldn’t see it. By the time they got back Arthur just looked tired. He’d shrugged off everybody’s company, every _I never liked her_ and _she’s not good enough for you, Arthur,_ and John knew they were trying to help by dragging Mary’s name through the dirt, but wished they’d stop. Arthur retreated to his tent, and John listened for a little while as people talked trash – except for Abigail, who had a good head on her shoulders and saw the situation for what it was. Abigail had never met Mary, but John imagined that they would have been friends had the circumstances of their birth been different. Abigail had asked if she should go talk to Arthur, and John had told her no – let him have his space. He gets emotional when he’s drunk, anyway. So Abigail had just nodded and sat beside him, and gone to bed when he went to the scout fire. The scout fire was where Arthur joined him hours later.

He had stumbled over, tired and sad but considerably more sober, and sat down on the log beside John like he was ten years older than he actually was. John had looked at him and said, “you look like you’ve had a good time,” and Arthur had said “fuck you, Marston” but there was only fondness in it under all that hurt. John can no longer remember what they talked about after that. He imagines it was some of Arthur’s regular diatribe – to stick with what matters. _Family, John, that’s what matters most_. Statements, John thought, were designed to help him reorient himself, to block out the hurt of Mary and put his focus back on the gang, just like he had done with her time and time again, just like he had done with Eliza and Isaac. John had listened at the time, but what he remembered now was watching Arthur’s handsome face, how tired his eyes looked, and how warm it made him feel watching a man so so large, so strong and mean and violent, so hardened, soften despite it all talking about Hosea and Dutch. About John, and Susan and Abigail. Arthur’s loyalty was borne out of love, John thought. Not obligation. It had taken him a long time to understand that was what made the folks who stuck around stay as long as they did.

At some point in the night, Arthur had stopped talking, and had just looked at his hands. John had put his on Arthur’s back, and Arthur had looked at him and for a moment John thought the blank expression meant he was about to be punched. But the older man just sighed a little and looked back at his hands, and John kept his hand where it was and felt the muscles there relax little by little. And then Arthur had said, quietly, so both of them could deny it had been said if they wanted, “what would I do without you, John Marston.” John hadn’t even replied. He’d only gripped Arthur’s shoulder, and let them fall into silence and kept it that way when Arthur leaned against him.

And then he’d gone and thrown it all back in Arthur’s face, and that was what was keeping him awake. He should have known, he thought – Arthur was a good man at his core, and he had hardened himself against the world because it had been ripped from him time and time again, and his only source of comfort was his family. John, Hosea and Dutch, Susan and Abigail. And John, knowing that, had still betrayed him where it hurt most. Regardless of what he felt at the time, that was what had happened.

He tossed violently in his cot, like the motion could jar the feeling out of him. He thought about Arthur at that scout fire, and then two years ago calling him selfish with so much disgust in his voice it made John want to curl in on himself (he hadn’t – he’d lashed out with anger, like usual, and Arthur had laughed called him a child). Arthur was stubborn, but John couldn’t blame him. And maybe, one day, they’d look each other in the eye again, and sit like friends at the scout fire, but there would always be that hurt there, that scar, that ocean that John had poured in the space where words like _what would I do without you_ could pass freely. Where on nights when they were exhausted they could fall comfortably against eac h other, pass with no words between each others’ tents and slip out in the mornings. Where after a successful haul, they could look at each other and grin and drink and relish in a bond that was all their own The damage was done. There was no going back. John could sit and think all he wanted, could question why Arthur would go after Mary despite how she hurt him time and time again after not hearing from her for years because of a _letter_ , and wouldn’t offer John any forgiveness at all even though they lived practically on top of one another in camp. It didn’t change anything. Mary had broken Arthur’s heart, but she hadn’t betrayed his trust. John had done both.


	2. Chapter 2

Dutch had started getting flighty whenever anybody was gone for too long.  This wasn’t terribly unusual, but it seemed worse than normal  and had taken a different tone . John overheard him talking to Hosea about a few of them – if they were gone for more than two days, it seemed, Dutch began to wonder if they were with some unknown enemy, trading information. Past four days. Dutch reverted back to what John was more familiar with – plain, old fashioned worry. Say what you would about the man, or how paranoid Black Water had made him, he thought of them as his children and when one went missing, he worried.  Especially after that business with Bill.  B ounty hunters everywhere, ready to pluck the unobservant off the road. Arthur was somewhat of an exception.  T he time limit on worry for Arthur seemed to be about a full week, because Arthur could handle himself. Weeks ago, he’d sent out Javier to find him just to check in, and when they’d come back together John had watched  Dutch practically burst from his tent saying  _t_ _here’s the big man!_ And had had another flash of jealousy at the attention, and the smile Arthur gave Dutch, and the fact Javier had been the one sent to find him, and the whole damn situation. 

This time, though, Javier  was gone, and  John knew  Dutch would not send Bill, and the others were new and no doubt Dutch thought if Arthur had gotten himself into something bad enough to prevent him coming home, he’d need one of the old crew to get him out of it.  John knew what to expect before Dutch got within five feet of him.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” he had said, setting down his sharpening block. Dutch had put his hands on his hips. 

“Is it my lot in life to be _doubted_ at every turn, John? Jesus, it’s not a god damn bank robbery, just go make sure Arthur isn’t dead.”

“How am I supposed to find him?”

“Use your imagination. Or any one of your numerous skills – if Javier could figure it out, I’m sure you can too. You’re not an idiot, son.”

John looked at Abigail and expected to see a flicker of upset over her face. That had been happening more and more since the wol ves – any time he was asked to go out, Abigail worried, and worry on Abigail looked like anger and sorrow. But this time there was nothing. Maybe it was because it was Arthur, who, John thought, she liked best  of all of them  (and he couldn’t blame her).  They’d liked each other since the first day,  both of them smart and capable and wicked in their humor . Since  John’s return, s he’d tried so hard to bridge the gap between them,  and she seemed to accept it wasn’t going to happen but she was just as  attached to  Arthur as she had been before everything  between him and John turned sour. Maybe more. John sometimes thought about how close they’d been while he was gone – if it had been somebody else, it might have made him mad, but it was Arthur. Worse things could happen than Arthur Morgan raising his son for a year and looking after his woman, and they were both probably better off for it.  John had even wondered in Arthur might actually be Jack’s father, and while he had tried to be bothered by that, it never stuck for long. So John sighed at the inconvenience, and packed hastily, and took Old Boy out and rode in the direction he’d seen Arthur going. 

* * *

  


Arthur wasn’t that far from camp.  It looked like he might have even been on his way back, but he had  very little with him for how long he’d been out. When he heard John approaching he put his hand on his gun, and it took him a minute to recognize the intruder – about as long as it took John to make out the shape of bruises on his face and dark spots on his clothes. 

“Dutch sent me.”

Arthur huffed a laugh. “ R egular mother hen. Can you imagine Colm O’Driscoll sending  _anybody_ out to look for folks? And Keiran says we’re the same.”

It’s the most he’s talked to John without an insult in weeks, and John wonders what’s wrong. It makes him uncomfortable, and he shifts in his saddle,  unsure of what to say.  “So… you comin’ back with me, or what?”

“Marston, you can wander like an idiot in the dark if you feel the need, but I’m ridin’ back in the morning. I have had a long day, and the only way it could get any longer aside from Dutch sendin’ you of all people to come find me is if my girl breaks a leg.”

John gripped the horn on his saddle and hesitated –  an insult hadn’t made his feeling of discomfort any better, so it turned out .  Maybe because it clearly wasn’t serious. He hesitated long enough that Arthur looked at him. 

“You gonna get off that animal or sleep up there?” 

He set his jaw and narrowed his eyes at Arthur like it would calm his nerves, and swung his leg off the horse while his heart thudded in his chest. 

“Good. Poor thing needs a break from carryin’ your dumb heavy ass around on its back all day.”

“You must need to stop every five seconds, then.”

Arthur barked a laugh, and again, John wondered what was wrong. This felt strange – it felt like nothing had ever happened between them, and it kept feeling that way as Arthur patted the space beside him and handed him part of his dinner when he sat. 

“So what happened?” John asked, putting his focus on the food.

Arthur waved. “’S nothin’, ran in to some strange folk up ‘round Roanoake Ridge. Caught me by surprise.” 

John chanced a look at him. At the new angle, lit well by the fire, he could see bruises and blood. A gash on his forehead. A dark stain on his shoulder. Arthur’s gaze moved to John briefly before John could notice, and he grunted. 

“I took care of it.”

“Looks like they tried takin’ care of you first,” John said, looking back at his food. He was glad it was so dark – his face felt hot with embarrassment, having been caught staring.

“Most they did is put a hole in my jacket and spook Lady there into dumping my skins into the river. Scared her so bad she almost took off a cliff, thought I’d never see her again.” 

“Did a number on your face too.”

“Hardly noticeable, blends in with the rest of the ugly mess.”

John scoffed before he could stop himself. 

“You laughin’ at my face, Marston?”

“Sure, Arthur.” John felt his skin crawling the way it did whenever Arthur looked at him. It happened more often than he actually caught Arthur looking. He made the choice to keep staring at his food. “We make a pretty pair, between my scars and your face bein’ half purple.”

Arthur chuckled, and John’s chest ached. This was an Arthur he was familiar with – an Arthur who would listen to him talk like he wasn’t an idiot by the scout fire, who would kiss his jaw as they lay pressed together in a cot too small for men of their size, who he would call companion and partner and die next to with no regrets. John wasn’t sure what was happening, but he knew it wasn’t going to last. He should take advantage of it. He should say all the things he’d wanted to say, beg forgiveness, thank Arthur for taking care of Abigail and Jack when he was gone and hell, even after, because John knew he was a bad father. But John had never been good with words, and he certainly didn’t know what ones to use now. Instead he thought back to Colter, lying in the bed sweating through the worst of his injuries, drifting in and out of consciousness. Glimpses of Abigail and Mrs. Grimshaw and Mary-Beth leaning over him, and sometimes the familiar smell of tobacco and leather and a large, rough palm against his. 

John felt like somebody had dumped cold water on his face. Maybe it wasn’t like he thought at all – at least, not in the way he thought. Maybe it was Arthur,  _finally_ , who was lost for words. Arthur who had been trying to convince himself to be something that wasn’t sustainable, because at the end of the day they were still the same people.

H e turned, finally, and met Arthur’s gaze. 

“You get shot?” He asked, clearing his throat. Arthur gave him a signature crooked smile, lines around his eyes soft as he teased, even through his exhaustion.

“Naw, I puncture holes in all my clothes for fun.” 

“I mean, are you – I could take a look for you. Make sure it’s clean.” 

Arthur watched him carefully, and John watched the muscles in his jaw tense and t hen relax. “Yeah. Sure, why not.”

John set the tin cup down, and shifted on his knees while Arthur strippe d. He did it without shame or embarrassment,  but winced when he took his jacket off, and as he unbuttoned his shirt and the top half of his underwear. John helped him get  the cloth pulled away from his shoulder, trying not to let his touches linger too much  as he peeled away the makeshift bandage . Arthur’s skin felt like it burned his fingertip s. It was the most contact they’d had since Arthur had carried him from that cliff, and before that… years. 

“’S just a graze, really. I got it cleaned up pretty well,” Arthur said.

“Might wanna have Strau-”

“Don’t even say his name, I don’t wanna think about him. I’m feelin’ bad enough as it is without wonderin’ how long before that spineless coward cons another poor fool into a bad deal I got to collect on.” 

“Sorry.”

Arthur shook his head. John could hear him swallow, and tried to keep his hands steady –  no point in pushing his luck, Arthur was clearly feeling… some way. Sensitive, maybe. John wanted to know what had happened, but wouldn’t bring himself to ask . When Arthur looked back at him he looked exhausted. “You satisfied now,  Wolf Man ?”

“Not really.” 

John thought he might get punched, the way Arthur narrowed his eyes. It didn’t happen.  “What you gonna do about that?”

John leaned in before he could think about it too hard. It was just like before – before everything between then went south, and it came back to him like a second nature. He pressed his lips to Arthur’s and grasped the back of his neck. Arthur’s hands went to his hips like they’d never  had any time apart at all . 

John kissed him hungrily, desperate to make up for lost time, to take advantage of Arthur’s forgiveness while he had it, like it would disappear  when the sun rose.  Maybe it would. John wished, not for the first time, that he could know what Arthur was thinking as he palmed his ass and made soft noises against his mouth, as he let John bully him back into his tent.  You never really knew what Arthur was thinking, even if h e seemed just as desperate in his own way. Gruff and flustered-looking, but confident in his motion. 

Arthur watched him from the ground as he took his shirt off and undid his pants, moving stiffly out of his own. John always felt a little embarrassed comparing his skinny frame to Arthur’s, but it didn’t really matter. Arthur had never mentioned it, and hadn’t ever seemed disappointed. He didn’t seem that way at all now, tracing over ever scar he could see in the dim light. It took John a moment to realize he was mapping out all the new ones – and there were many from the past three years. God damn, _three_ _years_. John kissed Arthur as deeply as he could manage, like he could force them into becoming the same person, and then pushed him back on to the bedroll. Arthur was already reaching for his satchel, grasping for a tiny tin of grease, and stretching back to put every inch of himself on display. He’d always done that, and it killed John knowing it was not a move made out of confidence. He did it for John, because he knew John liked to look. John was well aware of how Arthur felt about himself, and that he would never accept the fact – _the god damn fact_ – that he was a sight to behold. He didn’t even comment anymore, because Arthur would only laugh dismissively. John ran his hands over Arthur’s body appreciatively, and even that made Arthur roll his eyes as he shoved the tin into John’s palm. So instead of lingering like he wanted to, John pried the container open and greased himself up, using the rest of the slick on his fingers to open Arthur up. Arthur hissed at him to hurry up and fuck him, and John didn’t spend enough time preparing him because like in all things he was impatient, and Arthur knew how to goad him on. 

He wrapped his hand around Arthur’s cock before leaning forward to kiss him again – claim him, he thought, make him regret any other man he’d been with in the last two years if there had been any at all because John was a jealous creature – and fell into a familiar pattern. Arthur’s fingers in his hair and along the muscles on his back, the soft groans and stuttered gasps as John found the right angle, the press of Arthur’s forehead against his as he pulled back to breathe. The way Arthur moaned when he came, deep and low, and John watched his lashes flutter and wondered if he could he’d stretch this moment out forever. But he was close, and Arthur was kissing him again, smothering him in an embrace, and it was over too quickly. He pulled out and came across Arthur’s thigh, and collapsed against his solid body, gasping against Arthur’s throat. Arthur’s arms locked around him. 

“God damn you,” Arthur breathed.

“I’m sorry.” 

“I know you are, John. God damn you.” 

Years later, staring down an army of Pinkertons at Beecher’s Hope, he’d think back to this moment and wonder what it would have been like if he and Arthur had gone back to Horseshoe Overlook, taken Abigail and Jack, and run. In that split second between fear of death and the calm knowing that at least Abigail and Jack were safe, an entire lifetime would play out – a lifetime with the people he loved best, that ended in old age and comfort. An ending neither of them deserved. In that life all the things he wants to say spill out of his mouth – all the reasons why he left, how much he loves Arthur and Abigail and how badly he wants them to just be okay. In this reality, John doesn’t suggest leaving Dutch. Instead it’s Arthur, and John might even argue, but by the end of the night he’s convinced because Abigail wants to leave and Arthur is very compelling. He opens his mouth and tells John his deepest fears, that Dutch isn’t just paranoid, that he’s not a loving father-figure, that he’s losing his mind and it’s going nowhere fast and he’s blatantly manipulating them, and there is no plan. Blackwater was a catastrophe because of Dutch, and it will only get worse. Arthur and John become preoccupied with planning, and through their preoccupation Arthur doesn’t hunt down any debtors. Maybe it’s Bill, or even Micah. And maybe they leave that night, or a few weeks later when another plan goes horribly, or after Jack is taken. But they do leave, and they change their appearance and settle down, and without Arthur there to keep things running, Dutch is caught and everything just fades into the distance. An ending they never think about as the three of them lie in bed, Abigail and John to either side of Arthur’s broad and healthy frame, and Jack in the next room over.

B ut that doesn’t happen.  In his last moments, John can’t call it a regret, because all in all he feels big enough then to admit they got exactly what they deserved, but it fills him with a particular kind of sadness he has no name for. 

Mouth pressed against Arthur’s shoulder,  John waits for his heart to stop pounding, and he listens to Arthur catching his breath.

“We fucked a couple times while you were gone. Abigail and me,” he says. It’s abrupt, in the way most of Arthur’s words are, and John can’t help but smile at it.

“She told me.”

“Yeah, well. Figured I’d make sure you knew. She won’t-”

“Care that we fucked? No. She didn’t before, can’t imagine she would now. She’ll probably be relieved. Or maybe a little jealous. Hell, probably both.” 

“Oh, she shouldn’t be _too_ relieved. Don’t think that this means I ain’t still mad as hell at you.”

“Don’t worry, I figured. I still ain’t recovered from the shock of the present situation, tell you the truth. I thought you were gonna hate me forever.”

Arthur chuckled tiredly, still not forcing John off him. He seemed content with the weight, and John didn’t mind at all. “I thought I was too, you selfish bastard.” 

“I wore you down.”

Arthur snorted, “Don’t pay yourself any favors, ain’t got nothin’ to do with your penchant to run your mouth like a little dog.”

He paused, and John just listened. Arthur’s hands carded through his hair and he had missed that feeling. By the time Arthur spoke again, he felt half hypnotized. “ You scared the shit outta me,  out in Colter . If you hadn’t gone and almost got yourself killed I’d have no problem with givin’ you the cold shoulder stil l.  As it is, that was a hard thing to watch. Made me… made me think on things, despite how hard I tried not to. ” 

“Glad it was as hard for you as it was for me.”

“Shut up.”

John laughed, and rolled off to Arthur’s side so his chest was pressed against his good arm and he could at least partially look at Arthur’s face. He’d gotten so much older,  John thought. He wondered if Arthur felt the same way about him, and if he liked the age on John’s face as much as John liked the age on Arthur’s. “You sit up with me when I had that fever?”

“’Course I did. Thought you were gettin’ ready to die. Christ, you remember that?”

“Barely,” John chuckled, and reached for Arthur’s hand. 

He looks at their fingers intertwined, illuminated by the dying fire outside the tent, and mulls over all the things he isn’t going to say  even though he’d like to. One thing might slip out  softly, quiet  so both of them could deny it had been said  if they wanted . Something they both already know, because even when they’re as distant as they are John knows they are meant to be attached at the hip and  in their best lives they will die at the same exact time.  And he knows Arthur feels the same way under all that betrayed trust. 

Arthur shifts and  looks at him  after he speaks , and says nothing, and John knows this won’t happen again any time soon,  the two of them being together . Arthur is tired and needed him  after who knows what happened in Roanoke Ridge, and he’s afraid for his family, and the look he gives John tells him that he’s still got a ways to go before this happens in any context but this one. Tomorrow he’s likely to step back to an arm’s length away, but that’s better than what it was before  and John can see the light at the end of the tunnel . It’s progress, and Arthur runs his thumb over the scar on John’s cheek as gently as he can, which is surprisingly  so , and he says “John Marston, you damn fool,” quietly,  like they were still huddled around that scout fire . 

  



End file.
